Spain's Little Tomato
by OwlinAMinor
Summary: A short one-shot in which Romano discovers tomatoes and Spain discovers that Romano closely resembles a tomato.  Spamano.


**SPAIN'S LITTLE TOMATO**

**RATING: T (For Romano's potty mouth)**

**PAIRING: Spamano (SpainxRomano)**

**GENRE: Humor & Romance**

**DESCRIPTION: A short one-shot in which Romano discovers tomatoes and Spain discovers that Romano closely resembles a tomato.**

**POV: Spain**

**INSPIRATION: The Delicious Tomato Song. (Because I may be in love with it ... just a little tiny bit ...)**

**IT'S A BIRD ... IT'S A PLANE ... NO, IT'S A DISCLAIMER: I own Spain, Romano, and the awesomeness that is tomatoes ... Yeah, I wish.**

**A/N: I was supposed to be working on my multi-chapter Maximum Ride story. Then, a plot bunny invaded my mind and I started writing a Spamano one-shot. And then, while in the middle of writing that, _another_ plot bunny bit me and I started writing this. (Personally, I blame my friend Hannah for obsessing over Hetalia whenever we see each other and making it almost impossible for me to think of anything else.) _Anyway_, enjoy!**

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><p>"Romanito!" I called into the messy house, pushing the door closed behind me. "I'm back from my trip to America!"<p>

"Go away; I'm eating pasta!" my favorite chibi hollered from the kitchen.

I picked my way around piles of trash, dirty laundry, leftover food, decaying furniture, and … was that a piano? … until I found myself in the kitchen (which wasn't much cleaner.) True to his word, Romano was sitting on the kitchen table in an apron and tunic that probably hadn't been washed since I left a few months before, eating pasta with an irritated pout on his too-cute-to-be-true features.

"Romanito! I missed you so much!" I exclaimed, bounding over and throwing my arms around him. He stiffened and swore at me, but allowed himself to be hugged. Progress. I didn't know why Romano didn't like me. Sure, I made him do chores for me all the time, but I fed him and saved him from anyone who tried to kidnap him, didn't I? Besides, shouldn't everybody just try to get along with everybody else? It would make life so much easier.

Oh, well. At least Romanito was cute when he was angry.

After exactly thirty-six blissful seconds, Romano muttered, "Let go of me, you fucking bastard." I complied, and then suddenly remembered something.

"I almost forgot! I brought you a present!"

"Is it edible?" the Italian inquired.

"Yes, it is," I said, "and it's extremely delicious! I think it might be better than churros, even! I found it when I was exploring the New World, and the Indians let me take some home! Wasn't that nice of them? I love the Indians. They're uncivilized savages, but they're so kind to my colonists. It's too bad they'll probably end up driven out of their lands to make room for European settlers, but at least –"

"Just give me the damn thing, already!" Romano demanded.

Still jabbering about Indians and colonists that were mean to them, I rummaged through the satchel I'd been carrying until I found it. It was a fruit or vegetable of some sort, round and plump and about the size of my two fists put together. It was also very red – like the color Romano's face got when he blushed, only multiplied times a hundred – and had a little green sprout growing out of its top. It smelled of sunshine.

I handed the food to Romano, who stared at it like it was his newly-found soul mate, his eyes nearly as large as the thing itself.

"I thought I'd let you name it," I told him, but he wasn't paying attention. He ran his hands over its smooth skin, his golden eyes still fixed on it. Slowly, nervously, as if he was about to do something revered and honored, he brought it to his mouth and took a bite.

And then, my Romanito fainted. He tipped over backwards like a drunkard who's had too much alcohol and landed in my arms with a _THUD!_

I set him down carefully on the table and, panicked, wracked my brain, trying to think of what to do. What did one do if someone fainted? One would wake the person up, right? Wasn't there something called smelling salts that woke people up? I grabbed some salt and sprinkled it over Romano, but it was no help. Hmm … cold water, perhaps? The bowl of freezing water I dumped over his head didn't seem to help, either. Shaking him? No help. Slapping his face? No help. Kissing him? No help. (But his lips tasted so good … like that food …) Pinching his cheeks? No help. (Though I was momentarily distracted by Romano's cheeks – they were so soft and squishy.) Shouting "PASTA!" in his ear? No help. (I guess that only works for his brother.) Yanking his hair curl? Even _that_ was no help.

_NOTHING WORKED!_

_WHAT IF HE NEVER WOKE UP?_

_WHAT WOULD I DO WITHOUT MY ROMANITO?_

_AAAAAHHHH!_

Having tried everything I could think of, I leaned back against the counter, exhausted by my frantic dash around the house, attempting to wake my chibi. He didn't look like he wanted to be woken up, really – he looked peaceful and serene, completely opposite from his usual aggressive face.

I sighed. All that running around and panicking sure made me hungry. And that delicious food was still sitting on the table next to Romano, begging me to eat it … Needless to say, I grabbed it and opened my mouth, preparing to take a bite. Suddenly, Romano's eyes shot open and he snatched the food out of my grasp before I could say "_MIO!_"

I wasn't sure whether to be relieved or sad (maybe a combination of the two) as Romanito devoured the food like a starving animal, leaving red juice all over his face and hands.

"Tomato," he whispered contentedly, his eyes closed and a smile of pure bliss on his face.

"Tomato?" I repeated.

"I want to call it a tomato," he explained.

I grinned down at him, my green eyes sparkling. I really was relieved that he didn't stay asleep. "Tomato it is."

He extended his hand to me. "I want more, fucking bastard."

I peered into my bag. There was a churro … a turtle … a tomato … a pirate hat … a dagger … what was I looking for, again? Oh, right. I picked up the tomato (that was a great name for it, I had to admit) and examined its beautiful red surface.

"Give me it." Romano reached for the tomato.

I held up a finger. Yes, Romanito wanted the tomato, but he could wait. I was about to make an amazing discovery. I could just feel it coming, like a rabbit coming to a big, juicy carrot … almost here … almost … almost … and …

_Oh, Dios mío!_

"Romanito! You look just like a tomato!"

Holding the tomato in one hand and the Italian in the other, I confirmed my Revelation of an Awesomeness so Awesome it Must Have Been Conceived by Turtles. Romano's face – its color, its anger, its obvious delectable-ness – exactly resembled the tomato.

"No, I don't!" he argued. "That's a food, and you eat food, but you don't eat me! I do _not _look like a tomato, fucking bastard! Put me down, you fucking bastard. I said, PUT ME DOWN –"

"Romanito, you're my little tomato," I mused, ignoring his protests. "My little tomato. My _adorable_ little tomato. My _delicious_ little tomato. That fits perfectly, doesn't it?" I tried out my new nickname, substituting it in for Romano in the things I usually said to him. "Get up, my little tomato … Dinner is ready, my little tomato … Clean the house, my little tomato … Want a churro, my little tomato? … You're so cute, my little tomato … I missed you, my little tomato … Everything's going to be alright, my little tomato …"

"I AM NOT YOUR LITTLE TOMATO, FUCKING BASTARD!"

"… I love you, my little tomato …"

"…"

"Okay. Fine. I'll be your little tomato."

"_Gracias_, my little tomato!"

"NOW PUT ME DOWN, FUCKING BASTARD!"

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><p><strong>AN: Reviews. They mean to me what tomatoes mean to Romano. Less than three!**


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